foreground sounds and play them separately.
Arm came around the desk and leaned over Hood's
shoulder. Her warmth, her closeness were comforting. He
concentrated on reading the translation as the message
played.
"Ladies and gentlemen, good evening," said the
announcer. "We interrupt the supper club
troubador to report about further developments in the
explosion of the yacht tonight in La Concha
Bay. A few minutes ago, a tape recording
was delivered to our studio. It was brought by a man who
represented himself as a member of the First People of
Spain. This recording is reportedly of a conversation
which took place onboard the yacht, identified as the
Veridico,
moments before it blew up. With the delivery of this
tape, the FPS claims responsibility for the
attack. They also declare Spain as the province of
Spaniards, not of the elite of Catalonia. We
will play the recording in its entirety."
A parenthetical comment from Herbert read:
The FPS is a group of Castilian
pure-bloods. They 'we been publishing
broadsides and recruiting members for two years.
They've also claimed responsibility for two
acts of terrorism against Catalonian and
Andalusian targets. Their size and the identity of
their leaderggs) is unknown.
His jaw tightening. Hood continued reading the
transcript as the recording began to play. He
listened to the cool, quiet voice of Esteban
Ramirez as he
BALANCE OF POWER 123
spoke about the Catalonian plans for
Spain and boasted about the involvement of his group in the
murder of Martha Mackall. His group-with the help
of Congressional Deputy Isidro Serrador.
"Lord Jesus," Hood said through his teeth. "Bob-
is this possible?"
"Not only is it possible," Herbert said, "but it
explains Serrador's unwillingness to continue the
talks with Darrell and Aideen. That son of a bitch
set us up, Paul."
Hood looked at Arm. He'd seen many of her
darker moods during their nearly two years together but
he'd never seen anything like the way she looked now.
The compassion had faded completely from her face.
Her lips were pressed tightly together and he could hear
her breathing through her nostrils. Her eyes were hard and
her cheeks were flushed.
"What do you want to do, Paul?" Herbert asked
Hood. " "And before you answer, keep in mind that
the Spanish courts are not going to throw the book at
a leading political figure because of an illegal
tape recording made by someone whose hands are
probably as dirty if not dirtier than
Serrador's. They'll have a long, tough talk with
him and investigate the hell out of him. But if he's
got friends-and I'm sure he has- they're
going to say he was framed. They'll do everything they can
to stall the machinery of justice."
"I know," Hood said.
"I know you know," Herbert replied. "But they could
let him plea-bargain, just to keep his constituents
happy. Or they may let him off. Or they may
let him 'escape" the country when no one's
looking. What I'm
124 OP-CENTER
saying is, we may have to take this matter into our own
hands. If Serrador turns out to be a terrorist
sponsor, we should fight fire with fire."
"I hear you," Hood said. He thought for a moment.
"I want the bastard, and if I can't have him legally
at least I want him dead-to-rights."
So much for higher morality.
Hood told himself. He thought for a moment more. He
didn't want Serrador to slip away.
Unfortunately, he had only two
HUMBLEANT resources on the scene, Darrell
and Aideen. And he didn't know if they were up
to keeping tabs on him until Striker or some
third party group could get in and have a
heart-to-heart talk with the bastard. He'd have
to talk to Darrell about that. In the meantime,
he needed more intelligence.
"Bob," Hood said, "I want you to set up
whatever electronic recon you can on the deputy."
"It's already done," Herbert said. "We're getting
on top of his office and home phones, fax lines,
modem, and mail."
"Good."
"What do you plan on doing with Darrell and
Aideen?" Herbert asked.
"I'm going to talk to Darrell and then leave the
decision in his hands. He's onsite; it should be his
call. But before I do I want to talk to Carol
banning, see if State can give us the big
picture of what's really going on in Spain."
" 'What do you think is going on?"'" Arm
asked.
"Unless I miss my guess," Hood said, "the
death
BALANCE OF POWER 125
of Martha and her killers probably weren't just
warning shots."
"What were they?" she asked.
Hood looked at her as he rose. " "I
believe they were the opening salvos of a civil war."
ATX-UL1024 m m
ATX-UL0 Monday, 11:30 p.m. Madrid,
Spain
During the months that Congress was in session,
Deputy Isidro Serrador lived in a
two-bedroom apartment in the very fashionable Parque
del Retiro section of Madrid. His small
seventh-floor rooms overlooked the spectacular
boating lake and beautiful gardens. If one leaned
out the window and glanced toward the southwest,
Europe's only public statue of the devil was
visible. Sculpted in 1880, the statue
commemorated the only place where eighteenth-century
Spanish ladies were permitted-by tradition, not
by law-to defend their own honor in duels. Very
few women had ever done so, of course. Only men
were vain enough to risk their lives in order to reply to an
insult.
Serrador was sitting in a divan and looking out the
window at the lamplit park. He had come home after
working on congressional business for the rest of the day,
content in the knowledge that things had gone exactly as
planned. Then he had taken a hot bath and
briefly fallen asleep in the tub. When he got
out, he turned on the oven to heat the dinner left for
him by his housekeeper. He enjoyed a
brandy while his pork shoulder, boiled potatoes,
and chickpeas warmed.
BALANCE OF POWER 127
While he ate, on the hour, he would watch
television and see how the news channel interpreted
the shooting of the American "tourist." Then he would
check his answering machine for calls and return them
if it wasn't too late. He just didn't feel
like dealing with people right now. He simply wanted
to savor his triumph.
Watching the news,
he thought,
will be very amusing.
The experts would talk about the impact of the shooting
on tourism without having any idea
what was truly
going on-or what was going to happen over the next
few weeks. It was astonishing how little political
and economic forecasters ever really knew. For
everyone who said
this,
someone else said
that.
It was all just an exercise, a game.
His back was settled comfortably in the thick pillows
and his bare feet lay crossed on the
coffee table in front of him. The last of the brandy was
settled comfortably in the back of his throat and
reflections of the day's developments were resting
comfortably in his head.
The plan was ingenious. Two minorities, the
Basques and the Catalonians, would unite to take
over Spain. The Basques would contribute their
arms, muscle, and experience at terrorist
tactics. The Catalonians would use their
influence over the economy, winning political
converts by threatening a massive depression. Once
control over the nation was established, the
Catalonians would grant autonomy to the
Basque country, allowing those-like Serrador-who
wanted self-rule to have it. And the wealthy
Catalonians would con 128 OP-CENTER
tinue to run Spain, keeping the other
nonautonomous groups in check by controlling
commerce.
It was ingenious-and foolproof.
The telephone rang a moment before there was a knock
on the door. Serrador started as his reverie was
interrupted-on two fronts, no less.
Grumbling unhappily, the politician slid his
feet into his slippers and rose. As he
shuffled toward the telephone he shouted roughly for
whoever was at the door to wait a minute. No one
could come upstairs without being announced by the concierge.
So he wondered which of the neighbors wanted a favor
at this hour. Was it the owner of the grocery chain who
needed to expand his stores? Or the Castilian
bicycle manufacturer who wanted to ship more
units to Morocco, the bastard. At least the grocer
paid for favors. The bicycle maker asked for them just
because he happened to live on the same floor.
Serrador helped them because he didn't want
to make an enemy. One never knew when the
neighbors might see or hear something that could be
compromising.
Serrador wondered why he was never visited by one
of the beautiful concubines who lived here. There were at
least three that he knew of, kept by government
ministers who went home to their wives each night.
The antique telephone sat on a small
drop-leaf table in the carpeted foyer. Serrador
finished tying the red sash of his smoking jacket and
picked up the receiver. Let them wait at the door
another minute, whoever it was. He'd had a long
and exhausting day.
His
"Si?"'"
he said.
The pounding on the door grew more insistent.
BALANCE OF POWER 129
Someone outside was calling his name but he didn't
recognize the voice.
Serrador couldn't hear whoever was speaking on the
telephone. Annoyed, he turned from the mouthpiece
and yelled at the door. "Just a moment!" Then he
scowled down at the phone. "Yes? What is it?"
"Hello?" said the caller.
"Yes?"
"I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Ramirez."
Serrador felt a chill. "Who is this?"
" "My name is Juan Martinez,
senor,"
" said the caller. "Are you Deputy Serrador?"
" "Who is Juan Martinez?"'" Serrador
demanded.
And who is at the door? What the
hell
is going on?
"I'm a member of the
familia,
was Martinez said.
A key clattered against the door. The bolt was
thrown back. Serrador glared over as the door
opened. The superintendent stood in the hallway.
Behind him were two police officers and a sergeant.
"I am sorry,
Senor Deputy,"
said the concierge as the other men entered around him. "
"These men I had to let up."
"What are you doing?" Serrador demanded of them. His
voice was indignant, his eyes unforgiving.
Suddenly, he heard the phone click off, followed
by the dial tone. He froze with the buzzing phone
pressed to his ear, realizing suddenly that something had
gone terribly wrong.
"Deputy Delegado Isidro Serrador?"
asked the sergeant.
"Yes-was
"You will please come with us."
130 OP-CENTER
"Why?"
"To answer questions regarding the murder of an
American tourist."
Serrador pressed his lips together. He breathed
loudly through his nose. He didn't want to say
anything, ask anything, do anything until
he'd had a chance to speak with his attorney. And
think. People who didn't think were doomed before they
started.
He nodded once. "Permit me to dress," he
said. "Then I will come with you."
The sergeant nodded and sent one of the men to stand by the
bedroom door. He wouldn't let Serrador shut
it but the deputy didn't make an issue of it.
If he let his temper go there'd be no getting that
genie back in the bottle. It was best to suffer the
humiliation and stay calm and rational.
The men took Serrador down to the cellar and out through
the garage of the building-so he wouldn't have to suffer the
embarrassment of being arrested, he assumed. At
least they didn't handcuff him. He was placed in
an unmarked police car and driven to the municipal
police station on the other side of the park. There, he
was escorted into a windowless room with a photo of the king
on the wall, a hanging fixture with three bulbs
in white tulip-shaped shades, and an old wooden
table beneath it. There was a telephone on the table and he
was told he could use it to make as many calls as he
wished. Someone would come to speak with him shortly.
The door was shut and locked. Serrador sat in one
of the four wooden chairs.
He phoned his attorney, Antonio, but he was not
in.
BALANCE OF POWER 131
Probably out with one of his young women, as a wealthy
bachelor should be. He didn't leave a
message. He didn't want Antonio coming
home and some talkative nymph overhearing the
message. There hadn't been any press waiting
outside so at least this was being done quietly.
Unless they were at the front of my apartment?
he thought suddenly. Maybe that was why the police had
taken him out through the garage door. Maybe that was
what the concierge had meant:
These men I had to let up.
The press often tried to get to people who lived in the
building, and the staff was good about insulating celebrity
tenants from reporters. And his telephone number was
changed regularly so
they wouldn't be able to bother him.
But the caller had had it. He still wondered who that was
and what he had tried to warn him about. No one could have
known that he was involved with the people who had killed the
American. Only Esteban Ramirez knew that
and he wouldn't have told anyone.
It occurred to him then to telephone the answering
machine in his office. It also occurred to him
that this telephone might be bugged, but that was a chance he
was willing to take. He didn't have much of a choice.
But before he could place the call, the door opened and
two men walked in.
They were not police.
TE caret
Tuesday, 12:04 a.m. Madrid, Spain
The International Crime Police
Organization-popularly referred to as
Interpol-was established in Vienna in 1923.
It was designed to serve as a worldwide clearinghouse
for police information. After the Second World War, the
organization was expanded and rechartered to focus on
smuggling, narcotics, counterfeiting, and kidnapping.
Today, one hundred seventy-seven nations provide
information to the organization, which has offices in most
of the major cities of the world. In the United
States, Interpol liaises with the United States
National Central Bureau. The USNCB
reports to the Undersecretary for Enforcement of the
U.s. Treasury Department.
During his years with the FBI, Darrell
McCaskey had worked extensively with dozens of
Interpol officers. He had worked especially
closely with two of them in Spain. One was
the remarkable Maria Comeja, a lone wolf
special operations officer who had lived with
McCaskey in America for seven months while
studying FBI methods. The other was Luis
Garcfa de la Vega, the commander of Interpol's
office in Madrid.
Luis was a dark-skinned, black-haired,
bear-large,
BALANCE OF POWER 133
two-fisted Andalusian Gypsy who taught
flamenco dancing in his spare time. Like the dance
style, the thirty-seven-year-old Luis was
spontaneous, dramatic, and spirited. He ran one
of the toughest and bestinformed Interpol bureaus in
Europe. Their efficiency and effectiveness had
earned him both the jealous loathing and deep respect
of local police forces.
Luis had intended to come to the hotel right after the
shooting, but the events in San Sebastian had
caused him to delay his visit. He arrived
shortly after eleven-thirty p.m., as McCaskey
and Aideen were finishing dinner.
Darrell greeted his old friend with a long embrace.
Clancy, Tom - Ballance of Power Page 13
